


because I could not stop for death

by gallavichsecurity



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Anachronistic, Ben Hargreeves Needs A Hug, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Klaus Hargreeves Deserves Better, Klaus Hargreeves Needs A Hug, Klaus Hargreeves Whump, Non-Chronological, Reginald Hargreeves' A+ Parenting, Self-destructive ideations, more hurt than comfort tho
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:02:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27094729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gallavichsecurity/pseuds/gallavichsecurity
Summary: The first time Klaus kissed a boy, his breath tasted like cigarettes.(Or a Klaus-centric series of firsts.)
Relationships: Ben Hargreeves & Klaus Hargreeves, Diego Hargreeves & Klaus Hargreeves, Klaus Hargreeves & Everyone
Comments: 1
Kudos: 35





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> tw:// death, brief depictions of gore, brief mentions of suicide, underage substance abuse, language

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first time Klaus managed to make Ben corporeal — really corporeal, for more than just a split second — Ben had cried.

The first time Klaus managed to make Ben corporeal — really corporeal, for more than just a split second — Ben had cried.

They were stuck in the past, nearly forty years before any of them will even be immaculately born, shacked up in some piss-poor excuse for a motel off a dusty Dallas roadway, and Ben had _wept_. Ragged and broken and soul-crushing.

The first moment their hands collided, Klaus almost missed it, half of his conscious thought focused on pulling Ben into the physical plane, and the other half trying not to mess up the — admittedly simple — motions of patty cake.

He was still a little dope sick, if he was being honest. Withdrawal’s a bitch and he was lost in time after nearly getting blown to smithereens, there was some poor, young suicide-pact couple moaning in the corner with their heads half blown off, and all he wanted was a hit. He thought a little period of unsteadiness was perfectly justified. Plus, patty cake was hard, with an intangible partner.

Not intangible now, though. He nearly missed it, and he would’ve continued on as if nothing had occurred, if Ben hadn’t exhaled tightly and stilled in place. Hands — cold hands, but solid, and real — pressed a little more against his own, palms touching. Icy fingers, curling slightly around his own and holding them steady.

Klaus blinked, first at their hands, then at Ben, trying to internalize the slight pull in his gut, the chill in his chest that he figured — _hoped_ — was currently manifesting his ghostly brother into some semblance of a physical body. He felt a smile start to tug at his lips, but when he tried to find Ben’s eyes, his brother wouldn’t meet his gaze.

Instead, Ben pulled his hands away. Klaus could still feel the chill against his skin. “Again.”

Klaus blinked, smile dropping but nodding obligingly. Holding onto whatever state of mind he was in, flexing whatever metaphysical muscle had made the contact possible in the first place, committing it to memory. The heaviness in his chest, the quiet in his bones.

In tandem, they smacked their hands against their own laps, together against their own palms, and finally, to each other’s. And again, the contact rang out with a soft clap, solid and real.

Ben’s fingers didn’t curl around his, this time, and he pulled away almost instantly with an odd look in his eyes. “Again.”

And so Klaus obliged, and again their hands met in the middle.

And again.

And again.

And again.

Finally, Klaus couldn’t handle the repetition of it, despite Ben’s insistence, and locked his brother’s fingers between his own with a firm grip.

“Let go,” Ben ordered, almost rushed, trying to pull his hands free. There was a slight crease between his brows, and his mouth was pinched in that way that it got when he was overthinking. There was a glint of something like panic in his eye. “Klaus, I said let go—”

“Hey,” Klaus cut him off, tightening his grip, “ _hey_. It’s working.” He flipped his hands over, Ben’s in tow, shaking and icy but definitely real. He laced their fingers together, ducking his head to try and catch Ben’s gaze. “This is what we wanted. It’s _working_ , Ben.”

Ben’s breath hitched, his eyes trailing low, glazing over their joined hands.

(Ghosts don’t have to breathe, Klaus knew, but Ben still did anyway. A lot of ghostly habits were lost on Ben, if he was being honest. Not that he was complaining. It helped keep him alive, death be damned.)

Ben tried once more to pull his hands free, but the attempt was weak, almost feeble. Like he didn’t really want to be released anyways. “Klaus,” Ben said again, almost like a plea, quiet and low.

Klaus took the opportunity to run his fingers along the back of Ben’s knuckles. Confirming — for Ben or for himself, he wasn’t sure — that it was really happening. “We did it,” he exhaled, and a light, almost giddy feeling bubbled up in his chest. He looked up again, grinning. “ _Ben_ , we—”

Ben looked up, finally meeting his gaze, and his eyes were raw. Shining, pooled with tears, and suddenly Ben’s grip on his hands were like iron shackles. Cold and tight enough to leave bruises and shaking. Desperate, like he would fade away to wisps if he ever let go.

They might not always get along, and sure, some days they can’t stand the sight of each other. _Most_ days they can’t stand the sight of each other. But they were stuck together anyways, for better or for worse. And they were brothers. No matter how much they fight, no matter how much they piss each other off, they were always brothers.

So when the first sob ripped free of Ben’s chest, when his expression crumpled shut and he ducked his head and he clung onto Klaus’s hands like his afterlife depended on it, Klaus didn’t hesitate to pull him into his arms. Relishing in the contact, in the way Ben shook with heaving breaths as he wept, tangible and ice-cold and tucking into the embrace like he never wanted to be released.

He knew ghosts could cry. He’s seen it, firsthand, thousands of times. Wailing, angry, tormented cries of grief, or for revenge. This was different.

Ben’s hands released his in favor of looping around Klaus’ middle, fingers clawing tightly, almost painfully, into the fabric of his shirt. Klaus didn’t say anything. Didn’t feel the need to fill the near-silence with meaningless words, because nothing would be enough. Ben’s sobs perforated the otherwise quiet, stale air of the motel room, and that was all Klaus could focus on.

He couldn’t imagine, he thought absently, being in Ben’s shoes. Nearly fifteen years in the grave, little more than a lingering spirit unable to interact with the world around him, suddenly being able to touch. To grip and hold and be embraced and feel safe. Ben talked a big talk about the whole _being_ _dead_ thing, regarded it with an almost offhand nonchalance, but Klaus knew it got to him, sometimes. The powerlessness, the staleness, of being dead. The hopelessness. Sitting stagnant for eternity. Dead, lost in the world of the living.

Klaus felt guilty, then, that he hadn’t discovered this ability sooner. That he’d kept this from Ben, starved him of this contact, his own mind and powers deliberately leveled by the drugs and the booze like a freight train. That he’d asked Ben to stay, all those years ago, under the snow and ten feet away from his own casket, knowing full well what death meant. Knowing full well what existence was like for the ghosts that stuck around. Isolated and invisible and unable to physically feel... pretty much anything.

His siblings always told him how selfish he was. Self-centered and attention-seeking. He never really felt all that selfish, though, until his dead brother was sobbing in his arms. How could he let this happen?

Klaus could’ve prevented this, if he’d only worked harder. Could’ve prevented his brother — who had suffered a violent, tragic death at sixteen — from going without basic human touch for _fifteen years_. Nearly as long as he’d ever been alive.

Maybe they were right about him. Dad. Luther. Five. Even Diego, who had always been a bit softer, a bit more sympathetic than the others. Maybe he _was_ just a useless junkie. A disappointment. Maybe that was all he’d ever be.

He wanted to apologize. Ben should be mad at him. Ben should _hate_ him, for forcing him into this kind of muted existence. For ever keeping him from whatever kind of peaceful rest was waiting for him on the other side, where he could feel warm and real and seen.

Klaus pressed his nose into Ben’s hair, and it tickled against his chin, smelling faintly of ozone and something else, something sharp that all ghosts carried with them. Klaus pulled him tighter, icy tears soaking through the fabric of his shirt, and felt Ben sink further into the embrace. His own eyes burned, vision blurring, and he blinked up at the ceiling to keep the tears at bay.

He wasn’t sure how long he could keep this up — that metaphysical muscle he was flexing was already growing fatigued, new and unused to being clenched so tightly — but he made a silent promise to himself to exercise it. To make it stronger. Strong enough that maybe, someday, Ben can hug the rest of their siblings like this, too. If they ever found them.

God, he hoped they’d find them.

“You’re here,” Klaus murmured absently, into his hair, and Ben cried harder. “You’re here, Benny boy. I got you.”

Ben just nodded into the crook of his neck, and Klaus wondered, not for the first time, how the universe could be so cruel, and how he had ever tricked himself into adding fuel to that particular hellfire.


	2. Chapter 2

The first time Klaus spent a night in the mausoleum, he couldn’t speak for three days.

His siblings, lacking detail of what Klaus’s _special training_ truly entailed, observed his uncharacteristic silence and spent the first day celebrating the development in their light, slightly-too-sharp-to-feel-teasing kind of way. They poked at him and waved their hands in front of his face — _Hello? Earth to Klaus? I think he’s finally cracked, you guys —_ and wore down the paper-thin veneer he’d scrounged up to hide the way his bones shook inside of him. The way his skin felt like it was on too tight, the way he couldn’t stop his teeth from chattering and his stomach from churning in nausea and his mind from racing. Images of death burned into the backs of his eyelids, surrounding him regardless of whether his eyes were open or closed.

On day two, Vanya, Ben, and Five grew more concerned and stopped teasing, but Luther, Allison, and Diego still waved it off as Klaus being Klaus.

 _He’s just looking for attention,_ Luther had said, and Klaus didn’t think he could feel any worse than he already had, but he did. It always came back to the attention-seeking argument, with Luther. In reality, though, Klaus would give anything to not be seen. To be as invisible as the ghosts that haunted him. Instead, eyes followed him everywhere – blank, hollow eyes and eyes so angry, so vengeful that they seemed too animated to belong to the dead – and he wanted to scream.

He spent most of the day holed up in his bedroom after that, headphones planted firmly over his ears and hands busied with some yarn he didn’t know how to knit, if only to keep his attention low, drawn. Away from the ghouls that followed him home, filled his bedroom. That night, he dug out some dusty string lights from the basement — when Daddy dearest had ever deigned to _decorate the mansion_ was beyond him — and hung them in his room around his bed. Terrified of the moment when he’d be encompassed in darkness, at the mercy of the dead once more. Despite the addition of the string lights, he kept his lamps on all night long.

Every time he shut his eyes, he was back in that damned _tomb._

Klaus hadn’t realized just how many people had died on their property, until that first trip, when they all came at him simultaneously.

The morning of the third day, when Allison came to get him for breakfast, he’d barely slept. When she found him he was standing on his bed, a permanent marker held tightly in a white-knuckled grip, scribbling unintelligibly on his walls words and phrases that even he couldn’t wrap his mind around. Things the dead wailed at him, because it seemed writing their words down, listening to them, might be the only way to get them to quiet, the only way to dampen the voices in his head. Their words, immortalized on his walls, serving as some sort of placating comfort to them. Though they weren’t quiet by any means, weren’t any less _present_ , they gave him a just little bit more space, and Klaus gripped at it like a drowning man at sea.

Most of them just wanted some kind of acknowledgement, Klaus knew. And Klaus wanted to acknowledge them, he really did — he wanted to help, he wanted to comfort them and assist them in their efforts to move on and bring them to rest.

Klaus was also terrified of them. Because they were terrifying. And loud, and imposing, and bloody, and screaming, and crying, and _dead._

They were everywhere, and they wouldn’t leave him _alone._

Allison didn’t say anything, when she found him like that. Just brought a hand to her mouth as she took in the scene, horrified or heartbroken or both, glancing around the room with wavering eyes, and absently, Klaus knew he looked like a madman. Maybe he _was_ a madman, at the ripe young age of thirteen. He sure felt like one, that’s for sure. His eyes burned with tears and he still couldn’t find his voice and he felt like he was losing his mind, and so he kept scribbling, because it was all he could do.

The others knew Klaus talked to the dead. But they didn’t _understand._ To them, it was like their own powers: able to be called up when needed, but otherwise easy to ignore. They thought it was as simple as summoning someone who had died when he wants to see them, and then banishing them when he’s done.

The others don’t know a damned thing.

When Allison clamped a hand around his wrist and pulled him away from the wall, it took every ounce of strength he had not to squirm out of his skin. He tried to focus on the warmth of her touch — because Allison was real and Allison was alive — as she dragged him downstairs to the dining room, his feet following hers almost robotically. He didn’t even feel that usual wash of dread overcome him when he saw his family already seated at the table, the inevitable punishment for tardiness looming over his head, when Father turned his head only enough to catch their gaze out of the corner of his eye.

He always did that, Father. Moved only enough to just see you. Making it clear that _you_ were expected to move for _him,_ not the other way around.

“Something’s wrong with Klaus,” Allison worried aloud, shaky, before anyone could speak. “What did you do? Is this something to do with that training? He’s been weird ever since he came back—“

“Now now,” Father cut her off, expression pinched and disapproving, “that’s enough, Number Three. Four’s training is none of your concern, that I can assure you. And you.” His attention flicked down to Klaus, but he was distracted by the small armada of dead servants waiting at the threshold of the room, discussing something in ghostly moans that Klaus couldn’t decipher. “Number Four,” Father said, like an admonishment in itself, “I expect you to _look at me_ when I am speaking.”

Klaus blinked, dragging his gaze away from the ghosts. One of them made a sharp wailing noise, like a screech, and Klaus winced, shutting his eyes. Not that it helped, with afterimages of the mausoleum ghouls branded into his brain. He’d never escape.

“ _Number Four.”_

Father didn’t like having to repeat himself. Klaus didn’t even want to think about what kind of reprimand could await him, if he made him mad. If the mausoleum was _training,_ what on Earth would qualify as a _punishment?_

With much effort, he looked once again at the man ahead of him, not wanting to find out.

Father pursed his lips, not quite approving — _never_ approving — but satisfied enough with the eye contact. “That’s better,” he affirmed. “Now, Number Four — I will not have any more of this moping around, do you understand me? Your lassitude is unacceptable, and I will not stand for it. After breakfast you are to assist your mother with the dishes and then I expect you to make yourself present and prepared for training at ten o’clock with the others. Is that understood?”

Klaus swallowed the lump in his throat, wondering if the gooseflesh would ever fade from his skin. He nodded. They were so cold, the ghosts.

“Number Four,” Father berated, “you will answer me when I am speaking to you. Do you understand?”

Again, Klaus swallowed. He wondered briefly if there was such a thing as being _haunted_ into muteness, because he wasn’t sure he’d ever find his voice. From the table, his siblings looked on in various states of concern, and confusion.

Still, he didn’t put it past his father to sit there and wait, and make everyone else wait, for him to answer. Didn’t put it past him to take any opportunity to humiliate him into obedience.

He nodded again, and clenched his hands into fists at his sides. They quivered, but Father would never care.

“Yes, sir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all reggie's......... not a good dad, thanks for coming to my TEDtalk


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first time Klaus kissed a boy, his breath tasted like cigarettes.

The first time Klaus kissed a boy, his breath tasted like cigarettes.

Klaus’s breath, but also the other boy’s. His name was Owen. Klaus met him in a back alley down the street from a club he was too young for, yet weaseled his way into nonetheless. It wasn’t until Klaus had swiped over half a dozen drinks from unsuspecting bar patrons and popped something that he suspected was molly that two bouncers finally zeroed in on him and his distinctly under-21 self.

It was okay, though. Klaus was high and had a nice warmth in his chest from the booze, and the screaming fugitive hacker with the broken neck that had been following him around for three days had finally disappeared, so he had accomplished what he’d set out to do.

He had been Luther’s victim, during their last mission. He’d held a knife to Allison’s throat and Luther had gone blind with rage. The next thing he knew, the hacker was crumpled to the ground, dead, his ghost hovering over him with soulless, wild eyes. Noticing Klaus was the only one who looked at him directly, he’d taken to following him everywhere, like a lost puppy. A lost, angry, vengeful puppy. A lost, angry, vengeful, screaming puppy.

After being unceremoniously tossed on his ass, stumbling to the curb in a way that would definitely leave some bruises come morning, Klaus simply waved the lingering bouncers off, shooing them away.

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, and it was clear that his heart wasn’t in it even to him — mostly because his focus was lost, somewhere, behind the thrum of energy pounding through his temples, the tingling heat that reached down through his fingers. “I’m going, I’m going.”

As he stumbled away he felt their eyes linger. Crossing halfway down the parking lot, he turned back to them and offered a drunken curtsy.

“Have a lovely evening, gentlemen,” he slurred with a laugh. “Hope you enjoyed the fucking show.”

He watched and waited, still curtsying with a manic kind of smile on his face, until the larger of the two began shaking his head, and turning away. “Stupid kid.”

Klaus laughed again and turned back, his gait lilting as he made his way down the sidewalk. He pressed his fingers over the tight fabric of his leather pants, feeling the slight outline of two more pills safely tucked away in his pocket for later. Maybe it was molly, maybe it wasn’t — Klaus wasn’t complaining. His body felt free and the ghosts were gone, and that’s what mattered.

He sighed, relishing in the relative-quiet of the night — as quiet as the city got, anyways, without dozens of dead people wailing straight into his brain — and pulled the cigarettes from his coat pocket. Lit one, clenched between his teeth, blinking against the brightness of the flame when it burned behind his eyelids.

Or maybe that was the drugs, burning his brain to ashes. It didn’t matter.

He felt his balance give, just a little, and stuck his hand out to lean against the nearest wall. He chuckled to himself, tucking the box and lighter away, and turned down the small alley beside the building. His head was light in a way that was disorienting, but also incredible. Warm and peaceful and blank.

Slinking down further into the alley, he leaned back against the exposed brick of the building. Let his spinning head rest back against the cool surface, still feeling a bit feverish from the heat of the club, and took a long drag from the cigarette. Held it in, let it sit in his lungs for a moment, before exhaling forcefully. It burned his throat on the way out, and Klaus was grateful for the pain.

 _That stuff’s gonna k-kill you, you know,_ Diego had berated him one night, after catching him smoking on the roof.

Klaus had just laughed. _Yeah?_ he’d asked, humorlessly and quite a bit sharper than he intended. He hadn’t had a good day. _Before or after the drinking does? I wanna place my bets early on who ’s gonna win the race._

And Diego had just gotten that look on his face — that look that everyone got, when presented with Klaus’s special brand of self-destruction, half-pity and half-disapproval, but all heartbreak nonetheless. And he just shook his head and wandered away, leaving Klaus alone again with his unwelcome thoughts.

Diego was always the most disapproving, but in a better way than the others. The others disapproved with a condescending, holier-than-thou kind of attitude — talked down to him like he was some stupid kid who didn’t understand the gravity of what he was doing. Almost growing indifferent to it, over the years. Crazy Klaus, killing himself one vice at a time. Can’t be helped.

Diego was different. Diego would make his disapproval and disappointment clear, calling the drugs a weakness, Klaus’s dependency a failure, but would hold his hand when the withdrawal shakes got bad and clap a hand to his shoulder when his gaze starts to drift, knowing the sometimes, Klaus needs that physical reminder of what’s real and what’s not, and it didn’t make him feel as small. The others always made him feel small, but not Diego.

He wasn’t sure how much time he spent floating in the alley, but about five cigarettes later — or was it eight? He’d lost count — another figure started making its way towards him. Despite the way his head was drifting, he conjured enough focus to do a quick acuity check — and laughed nonsensically to himself when he confirmed that _yes_ , he was in fact crossed, and _excellent_. That was entirely the goal.

Which meant this shape approaching him was alive, and not a ghost.

Probably.

“Hellooo,” he chirped, half singing, and lifted his HELLO hand to the shape, though it might’ve been hard to distinguish in the shadows. “Welcome, fellow alley dweller. What brings you to this illustrious neck of the woods?”

The shape froze, for a moment, before letting out something like a laugh and approaching faster. As he drew closer, Klaus could make out some of his features, and realized he looked — young. Around his age.

The other boy slumped against the opposite wall, waving slightly in return. “I’ll just be here for a second,” he informed, and sounded out of breath. “Hiding from my piece of shit stepdad.” His eyes flicked from the mouth of the alley to Klaus’s face, and Klaus’s heart skipped a beat, because he was beautiful. Beautiful in a way that Klaus had never forced himself to act on, but had always wanted to. “You?”

Klaus waved a hand dismissively in the vague direction of the club. “Got booted from Sammy’s,” he admitted, mournful. “Bastards. I was just starting to get my groove on, too.”

The boy cocked his head, eyebrows drawing together. “You don’t look old enough to get into Sammy’s.”

“Why do you think I got kicked out?”

The stranger let out a huff, almost like a laugh. “I’m Owen,” he introduced.

“Klaus.”

“Cool name.” Owen nodded in the direction of Klaus’s pocket. “Can I bum a cig?”

Klaus, who was always generous to strangers in need, no matter what Luther said, fished one out and handed it over. “Anything for a fellow delinquent,” he assured, his words still slurred, his head still spinning. He helped him light it. “You interested in something a little stronger? Make things a little more interesting?”

And it was always hit-or-miss, when it came to this. Impulsive, high-driven social niceties, the drugs and the drinks and the flirting. But the stranger’s curiosity was peaked, and Klaus knew it was going to be a good night, even if he wouldn’t remember it in the morning. And if the way his head felt was any indication, he wouldn’t remember it in the morning.

Owen’s eyes brightened and drifted down over Klaus’s body before lifting again, excited and hungry and just what Klaus was looking for to round off his evening. He knew what he probably looked like. Strung out and unsteady, tight leather pants cut off at the ankles and feet bare — when he had lost his shoes, he couldn’t pin — with a wide mesh, low-cut tank top under an oversized jacket, kohl smeared around dilated eyes and glitter on his cheekbones. Jewelry glinted in the half-dark of the alley, a large, loud pendant resting with a chill against his still-flushed skin. He might’ve been looking to escape, but he still knows how to dress for a night out.

Owen smiled, and took a long pull from the cigarette, leaning back against the wall. “What did you have in mind?”

And there it was — that very specific, gruff kind of drag to his voice, and his eyes took stock of Klaus’s form once again.

Klaus had never made out with a guy, before, but the way he was leaning back was almost certainly an invitation. And maybe it wasn’t the best judgment call to get together with someone he hadn’t known for more than eighty seconds, but Klaus was high and giddy and Owen didn’t protest when he stepped into his space and for once, there were no ghosts around to spoil his fun.

“Your stepdad?” Klaus asked faintly, because high or not, he didn’t want to read this wrong. Didn’t want to take an action that wasn’t welcome.

Owen’s eyes fell to Klaus’s mouth, and he was still a little breathless from running, but his lips quirked up slightly. “Lost him about five blocks ago,” he assured. “Probably have some time before he gets here, unless he keels over from a heart attack first. Then we’d have all the time in the world.”

Klaus stepped closer, feeling brave and warm from the booze. “Are you real?” he didn’t mean to say aloud, but he had to be sure. He was never sure.

If the question came off as an odd one, Owen didn’t let it show. He smiled again, kind of crooked and kind of knowing, and met Klaus’s eyes. “Why don’t you come here and find out?”

And Klaus had never kissed a boy, before, but _hot damn_ he needed to start. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first time Klaus got high, he was blessed with silence — pure, uninterrupted silence — for the first time in as long as he could remember.

The first time Klaus got high, he was blessed with silence — pure, uninterrupted silence — for the first time in as long as he could remember.

He was expecting it to be like the booze — silencing the ghosts, drowning out the wails and the shrieks and the blood-curdling moans, with a dizzying spell of lightheadedness and uneven balance that would, sooner rather than later, have him passed out and at finally rest. But the drugs were different. The high was different than the wobbly feeling of being drunk, and the effect it had on his ability was even more drastic.

For one thing, where the alcohol merely silenced the ghosts, blurred their edges into something easier to ignore, something easier to dismiss, the high seemed to chase them away entirely. Force them to fade from his eyes and from his head and from the ever-icy weight in the pit of his stomach, and he couldn’t get enough.

Moving from one place to another, with no eyes following him, almost felt taboo. Forbidden. Like he was doing something wrong, which – okay, _sure,_ maybe he wasn’t supposed to be smoking at his age, but he also wasn’t supposed to be drinking, and he’d been doing that for years. What’s one more transgression, in the grand scheme of death?

But even as he rode his high, following it through as long as he could and making a mental note to reach out to his friend/newfound dealer to get some higher quality stuff, there were other differences, too, between the drunkenness he had become so intimately familiar with and this novel state of being. Mainly, the fact that the drugs, it seemed, didn’t do as much to pull his insufferable train of thought off-rails.

That was his favorite part about the alcohol. The fact that, once he’d reached a certain point, nothing even mattered. He’d presumably find that point with the drugs, too, but it wasn’t on that first night, and he longed for the buzz of alcohol. With the booze was able to get away mentally in a way that he so desperately needed, especially now.

_Especially_ now. Because now, Five was gone.

Five was gone, and Klaus couldn’t summon him.

Klaus couldn’t summon him which meant he wasn’t dead, but he also wasn’t _here_ , with them, anymore, and that wasn’t a thought Klaus could stomach in any way, shape, or form while sober. Because if Five wasn’t here, and Five wasn’t dead, it meant that Five was someplace _else._ Someplace where they couldn’t get to him.

And that? That was scary.

They’d never been the closest of the siblings, it’s true, and it wouldn’t be wrong to say that they bickered more than they got along. Five was always so quick-witted and sharp, throwing around his intelligence like a weapon and puncturing most of Klaus’s attempts at lighthearted, brotherly banter, leaving him deflated like a wilted balloon. Still, Five was family. And the thought of him being gone, maybe forever, in a way that was real and permanent, made Klaus’s stomach turn over violently.

He hadn’t meant to get high, that night. Hadn’t set out into the streets after curfew to pick up some new vice that he definitely didn’t need, but he’d met up with some of the other regulars at his favorite (read: easiest to sneak into unnoticed) bar and they had offered him a drag on the joint being passed around. One thing lead to another, and before he knew it the ghosts were gone and the world around him stood still, just for a moment.

He wished it would stay still.

He wished he didn’t need to poison his body in order to _think_ clearly.

He wished he was strong enough to do it without the assistance, but he _wasn’t._ He wasn’t strong enough. His brother was gone, and he wasn’t strong enough, and for the first time in as long as he could remember, everything he saw around him was _real._

He couldn’t tell, really, if it was the drugs he got hooked on, or the brief stint of clarity, of _sanity,_ that came with them. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever know, but frankly, he also wasn’t sure that he cared.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm giving anachronistic storytelling a shot here, folks -- once a few chapters have been posted, let me know if it's working?
> 
> title from Emily Dickenson's poem _Because I Could Not Stop for Death_ :
> 
> "Because I could not stop for death  
> He kindly stopped for me  
> The carriage held but just ourselves  
> And immortality."


End file.
